into the moat, to drowne the devill. It so
happened that, the stringe hung on a sprig of an
that grew out of the mote, and this
confirmed them that 'twas the devill. And so,"
adds Aubrey, with a tone of satisfaction, " the
good old gentleman got his watch again."

Considering the number and smallness of
the parts in a watch, the following achievement,
as told by Mr. Wood, is remarkable:
"From time to time some daring person has
climbed the spire (of Salisbury cathedral) to oil
the weathercock; a most dangerous feat, as the
top of the spire is four hundred and four feet
from the ground. It is ascended by ladders for
about three-fourths of its height, which are fixed
in the spire. A small door then opens, and the
adventurer has to climb the rest ot his way by a
series of irons, something like the handles of
flat irons, which are fixed in the stone-work, and
by which he is able to make his way to the top
to complete his busy work. On one occasion
some persons were assembled at the Pheasant,
in Salisbury, and were talking about this feat ,
when a watchmaker, also named Arnold, who was
present, offered for a small wager to ascend the
spire, to take with him his tools and a watch,
to take, the watch to pieces on the very top of
the spire, to clean it properly, and to bring it
down in less than an hour. He accordingly
climbed the spire, fixed his back against the
stem of the weathercock, completed his task,
and descended within the given time."

THREE LEAVES PROM A DIARY.

i.

A CLOUDLESS sky above Nice. The morning
breeze has sunk with the sun, now beginning to
tinge with gold the sharply defined crags of the
Cornice. The air faint with the perfume of orange-
flower and violet, jessamine and myrtle; but,
above all, the scent of the violet prevails. All is
so still that even the feathery olive-leaf scarcely
seems to stir. Faintly, very faintly, from below,
sound the murmurs of the distant city, mingled
with the plashing of the tideless waters. All is
peace—all save the human heart. Let us enter
this marble palazzo; let us enter reverently, for
the Angel ot Death is near. On a couch in a
darkened room a nation's hope is passing away.
Passionate prayers ascend to Heaven for him,
fond arms encircle him, but they cannot
"stay life's parting wings." The mother's wail
over her first-born, the young bride's agonised
shriek over her husband, soon tell that all is over.
And who is he who rises from his knees, and with
blanched lips and trembling hands advances to
close the eyes of the dead, and to tenderly kiss
the cold lips? One of the mighty ones of the
earth, arbiter of the fate of millions, absolute
sovereign Czar of all the Russias. Yet he turns
a mere grieving man, to clasp in his arms his
dearly loved wife, the bereaved mother of their
dead son.

II

A throng of denizens of many nations are
passing to and fro in the flowery paths of the
Bermont gardens, awaiting their turn to take a
last look of all that is mortal of the Czarewitch.
These gardens are superb, even for Nice, abounding
as she does in floral gems. Here, proudly
towering over all, stand two gorgeous palm-
trees. Hidden under the shade of a weeping-
willow, lies a fragrant bed of violets, carpeting
the turf with velvety blossoms, while around
spreads a perfect wilderness of roses and
carnations. Conspicuous among the former, we
observe numberless roses of that deep golden
hue celebrated in the sparkling sketches of
Alphouse Karr. But we are summoned to enter.
We ascend a low broad flight of steps, and,
crossing a vestibule, pass into a chamber, at the
open door of which stand on guard, two sailors
belonging to the Russian fleet. The interior of
the room is remarkable for its simplicity. On a
little camp bed near the centre, lies all that
remains of him who but a few short hours ago was
the heir to the greatest empire of the earth.
The fair young face looks yet more youthful
than when in life. In the one hand left outside
the white velvet coverlet, is a bunch of lilies;
strewn thickly over all are thousands of
orange-flowers, blooming and fresh, with the dew
still wet on their waxen blossoms. A priest
standing on a dais at a short distance off, attired
in raiment even more splendid than that worn by
the high dignitaries of the Romish Church, reads
aloud m the Russian tongue from the Bible. We
kneel for a few moments; breathe a prayer for
the dead or the living, according to our creeds;
and yield place to others.

III.

Floods of summer sunshine (for though
it is but early May, in this southern clime
the warmth is that of an English July)
bathe mountain and valley, rock and sea.
We are floating idly on the calm waters of the
bay of Villefranche, awaiting the event of the
day, the last scene in the sad drama begun in
Nice. We are slowly rowing away from the
little town or village of Villefranche. Just visible
on the right, stand the mimic fortifications of the
"Château Smith," an eccentric Englishman's
"folly." Towers, battlements, casemates,
drawbridges, portcullis, moats—all manufactured to
order; beyond are the grand old works of nature,
the purple mountain-chain of the Estrelles,
the glowing points of Autibes and St. Tropez,
then the Provencal hills again, until their
outline melts iu the far horizon. On our
left is a landscape of bewildering loveliness.
Orange and lemon groves, their bright hues
softened by the tender greyish green of the
olive-trees, clothe the hill-side in undulating
waves until they reach the sparkling sea, and dip
their branches in it; while high above, towers the
Alpine chain and the Teuda, whose summit is
still tipped with .snow. A little lower, the
rugged Turbia, stormed by eternal winds; a
little further, the old Roman ruin, the tower of
Eza, perched apparently in mid air,